When the Sun Doesn't Rise
by sideeffectsofjay
Summary: When a dare between two FBI special agents turns into a manhunt, the BAU must race to solve some strange clues in order to save one of their own. Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or any of its characters.
1. Chapter 1

**" _Drink with me now and forget all about the pressure of days; Do what I say, and I'll make you okay, and drive them away: the images stuck in your head." - Elliot Smith_**

"C'mon, kid. Don't tell me you're scared of a little alcohol."

"You know, statistically speaking, over three million deaths are attributed to alcohol consumption each year. That's about 5.9 percent of all deaths recorded, and 7.6 percent of them are male. As age decreases, the likelihood of - "

 _"Reid."_ Derek Morgan lays a powerful hand on the frail shoulder of his younger colleague. "Shut up and take the shot."

"The shot...right…" Spencer trails off, running his long, bony fingers through his sandy brown hair nervously. It isn't uncommon for him to spew out a novella of useless facts in normal conversation, but it is routine for Derek to be highly uninterested in them.

"'Atta boy!" Derek thumps Spencer on the back as he downs the shot of tequila that was placed in front of him over twenty minutes ago. He purses his lips and squeezes his hazel eyes shut as the liquid runs down the back of his throat. Derek smirks at him.

"Have you ever _had_ a drink?" He asks the 24 year old. Considering that Reid graduated high school at the ripe age of 12, Morgan wouldn't be all that surprised if this was his first adult beverage.

"W - what? Of course I've had a drink," Reid stutters, raising his eyebrows unconvincingly at his partner.

"Sure you have." Morgan laughs, flicking a swirl of Spencer's hair that had fallen across his sweaty forehead. Spencer attempts to swat him away, but freezes when the tiny hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end.

"What is it?" Morgan asks, concerned by Spencer's sudden shift in attitude. In their line of work, caution is key.

"Nothing," Spencer mutters, just loud enough for Morgan to hear in the crowded bar. "I just feel like someone is watching us."

Carefully, so as not to draw attention to the two of them, Morgan turns his stool around and scans the crowd. Some people are dancing, some struggling to keep their balance while not spilling the bottles in their hand, and others are playing pool over in the corner. Between the soft yellow glow of the lighting and the smoke that lingers in the air, he spots two pairs of eyes staring at them.

"I think you have some admirers, Doc."

"What?" Spencer turns and squints in the same direction as his partner, meeting the eyes of two tall, tan women in exceptionally short dresses, staring at the bar longingly.

"Whatever, man. They're looking at you." Spencer turns back around and flags down a bartender, taking another shot and smiling to himself.

Morgan has never had a problem catching the attention of every female in a room. He's a little over six feet tall, has a charmingly deep voice, glistening dark skin, and carved abs that are visible from underneath his tee shirt when he turns the right way. Spencer on the other hand, though about the same height, is lanky, quite pale, and often speaks with a nervous tone. The pair are total opposites in nature, but each possess their own attractive qualities and complement one another well as a team.

"And here they come," Morgan breathes, flashing his best smile. Not only is he a big hit with the ladies, but he knows it too, and isn't afraid to boast his confidence.

"That thing real?" The tallest of the two women ask, no sooner than they are in earshot.

"As real as you are, sweet thing," Morgan replies, casually patting the gun holster on his hip.

Next to him, Spencer struggles to maintain his content expression. Morgan slyly kicks him in the shin, making it all the more difficult for Spencer not to laugh at him.

"Well then," the girl says, batting her eyes seductively, "what do you say we get out of here and I'll show you how real I _really_ am."

Spencer rolls his eyes, having grown used to this type of conversation around Derek. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that his co-worker practiced these lines in front of a mirror every night. Morgan glances at Spencer from the corner of his eyes, and then back to the woman standing in front of him.

"As good as that sounds - and trust me, it sounds _really_ good - I'm gonna have to take a rain check tonight. I need to get my boy back home."

Spencer drops his eyes down to the bar, tracing a crack in the wood with his index finger as he becomes increasingly self-conscious with the heat from four eyes burning into the back of his neck. Some might take it as a kind gesture, with the idea that Morgan is just looking after him, but Spencer knows better. He knows that Morgan is poking fun at his low alcohol tolerance, and is implying that he is drunk after just two shots, which is entirely untrue.

"Taking care of your friend...how _sexy_." The girl whispers into Derek's ear before sauntering off. It is no surprise to either men when she stops in front of a guy just two seats down from where they are sitting.

"What's that?" Morgan asks, not catching whatever it was that Spencer mumbled under his breath.

"I said that you wouldn't have slept with either of those girls, regardless of my presence or lack thereof." The younger man avoids eye contact with Derek, but a smirk plays at his chapped lips.

"Alright, boy genius. Which mathematical equation did you use to get that answer?" It is typical for Morgan to poke fun at Spencer, but it isn't usually the other way around. Spencer has a hard enough time catching on to someone else's joke, let alone creating one of his own. Morgan wonders if this behavior has anything to do with the two measly shots that Spencer had taken. The thought makes him laugh.

"If you really wanted to impress those girls, you wouldn't have told them that your gun is real. Instead, you would have just implied that it's real by letting them know you're an agent of the FBI. Men with police, military, or other positions of power are eight times more likely to get a date than those who aren't. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out, Morgan. You just used me as an excuse to get out of it."

There is a brief moment of silence between the two, in which Morgan blinks quietly at his partner, giving his brain a sufficient amount of time to process the words in which Spencer delivers at an alarmingly fast rate. Eventually, Morgan smiles, never unimpressed with the way that Spencer processes the world around him.

"Is that so?" He asks, as if taunting Spencer to go on.

"Absolutely," the other man replies, a smile of his own tugging at his lips, though he still doesn't meet Derek's eyes.

" _Lack of confidence_ ," Morgan thinks to himself. He can't blame Spencer for it though, given their colossal difference in body size and structure. He would never intentionally hurt Spencer, but if he wanted to, it wouldn't take hardly any effort on his part.

"Alright. Fine. You caught me. Now let's see you do it better, pretty boy." Morgan starts scanning the bar for someone to fit the profile that he'd conjured in his head. Among the sea of intoxicated men and the women trying way too hard to get their attention, he spots a blonde bartender at the other end of the counter, tending to an older gentleman in a red cowboy hat.

"Bingo," he whispers.

"Let's make a deal," Morgan says provocatively, now looking his colleague dead in the eyes.

"I'm not a gambling man," Spencer retorts, mirroring the same stern look right back at Derek, almost challenging him to continue.

"Of course not," Morgan replies calmly in an attempt to prove how well he knows Spencer, thereby earning his trust on the matter. Just as he suspected, the tactic works.

"Go on." Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for whatever bogus instructions Morgan has in mind.

"See that girl over there?" Spencer nods, following the tip of Derek's finger to a skinny, curly-haired blonde pouring a glass of beer behind the bar. "All you have to do is go over there and impress her."

Spencer looks between the girl and Derek, not quite understanding the simplicity of the dare. "What's in it for me?" He questions, leaning back in his stool and looking at Morgan inquisitively.

Typically, a challenger of such a ridiculous bet would offer to buy his fellow man a drink, but Spencer is far from a typical man and Morgan is aware of this.

"I'll watch Star Wars with you," he finally concludes, realizing how ridiculous this would sound if he were talking to anyone other than Spencer.

"All of them?" Reid counters, not allowing his demeanor to falter in the slightest. To an onlooker, it might appear that the two were discussing a serious matter rather than a high school dare being carried out by one FBI agent to another.

"Every last one," Morgan reassures him. He isn't very concerned with the outcome, given Reid's past experience with women. He is generally nervous, awkward, and scares them away with statistics on how they will die. Thankfully, there will be no Hans Solo in Derek's future.

"How will you know if I've impressed her or not? Emotional reactions aren't always displayed psychically, especially in an environment such as this one."

Morgan sighs. "You ask a lot of questions, kid. Just get over there and make something happen."

"Deal," Reid finally agrees, standing up and removing the holster from his belt.

"What are you doing?" Morgan asks, surprised when Reid places his gun on the bar in front of him. It's against regulation to abandon your weapon in the field, off-duty or not. Reid isn't one to break the rules.

"Proving that not everyone needs a gun and a badge to impress the ladies, _Agent Morgan._ " Reid pats Morgan on the back and then disappears into the crowd of drunken patrons, appearing very much out of place on the dance floor.

"Touche." Morgan smirks, taking a sip of scotch as Spencer emerges back into his line of sight, directly in front of the blonde bartender.

He watches closely, guilted with shock as her body language changes just seconds after Spencer engages with her. She relaxes instantly, leaning into him and whispering something into his ear. As she pulls back, Morgan can't help but smile when he notices Spencer's tie wrapped around her delicate hands. She pulls him down into a stool and rests her elbow on the bar, plucking a cherry from a nearby drink and sucking on it seductively.

Accepting defeat and not particularly interested in watching the show, Morgan grabs Reid's pistol and holster, stuffs it into the small of his back, and ventures out onto the dance floor, leaving the other agent to his own devices. It doesn't take long before Morgan is swarmed by a group of women, and he enjoys every second of it.

* * *

"Alright, alright!" Morgan groans, finally lifting the white feather pillow from his face and leaning over to answer the phone. It is the sixth time that it's rang in the last five minutes, and he resists the urge to throw it over the side of his hotel room balcony.

"Morgan," he mumbles into the phone, rubbing his temple with the tips of his fingers as if it will make the headache go away.

"Wakey, wakey," a cheerful, feminine voice responds on the other end of the line. "I called your cell three times and you didn't pick up. We're boarding the jet back to Quantico in five."

"Thanks, JJ. I'll be right down." Morgan hangs up the phone with a satisfying click before stumbling out of bed and grabbing his jeans from off the floor. As he is putting them on, something thumps onto the carpet. He reaches down and picks up his cell phone, which must have went dead at some point the previous night. Having no time to charge it, he just stuffs it back into his pocket, grabs his go-bag, and heads out the door.

"It is about time." A flamboyant, attractive blonde saunters up to him as soon as he steps into the hotel lobby. "I thought I was going to have to issue a missing person's report."

"Oh please," Morgan jokes at Jennifer Jareau, the liaison for his particular FBI unit, "if someone took me, they'd bring me back in a heartbeat."

"I wouldn't doubt it," a dark-haired woman laughs next to JJ - Emily Prentiss, the newest agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

"You have your laugh, Prentiss. I saw you at the bar last night." Morgan raises his eyebrows at Emily, who throws her hands up in defeat.

"You caught me. I really _do_ have a life outside of the BAU."

"Morning." Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss all turn to see their boss and lead profiler, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, hovering behind them with a black duffel in one hand. As usual, he is wearing a suit and tie and lacking any hint of human emotion. The team often jokes about Hotch never smiling, but there is an unspoken understanding as to why he doesn't. Behind him, SSA David Rossi stands with a similar bag, choosing to observe rather than engage.

"Where's Reid?" Morgan turns back to JJ, who shrugs at him. "I need to return his gun."

"Why do you have Reid's gun?" Hotch questions. Given his monotonous voice, the team can't tell if he's just being curious or preparing to scold Morgan and Reid. Not being one to lie to a superior, Morgan answers as best he can.

"We went to the bar last night. I dared him to go up to some girl and he left me his gun. Said something about not needing one to impress the ladies. And then...well...let's just say whatever happened after that was replaced with this massive headache."

"Reid? Going up to a girl? In a bar? Derek Morgan, you are magic." Even Hotch and Rossi can't help but smirk at JJ's words, which prompts the entire team to snicker a bit.

"He may have had a few drinks," Morgan admits.

"A few?" Prentiss presses, almost sarcastically.

"Okay, he had two shots of tequila. C'mon. The kid weighs 120 sopping wet. He's a lightweight."

Hotch mumbles something into the communication device strapped to his wrist, cutting the conversation short. "Jet's ready," he announces to the group. "Morgan, I'll get your bag. Go back up and get Reid."

"Why do I have to - " Morgan starts. He isn't particularly fond of elevators, nor does he want to climb 19 flights of stairs with a fresh hangover.

"Because you're the one that got him drunk. Now go." Morgan sighs as Hotch picks his bag off the floor. The rest of the team silently mocks him as they head towards the revolving door of the hotel lobby. He rolls his eyes in their general direction, and heads back up the stairs.

"Reid? Reid?" Morgan pounds on his colleague's door, who happened to get the room right next to his own. When knocking and yelling doesn't work, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone, only to find a black screen. _"Dammit."_

Pulling out the card to his own room, Morgan unlocks it and steps inside. The two rooms aren't adjoined, but they are arranged the same, meaning the top of Reid's bed should be positioned just on the other side of the wall. Morgan taps it lightly, so as not to knock an expensive-looking painting of rolling green hills dotted with horses off the wall. "Reid?" He tries again. No response.

"C'mon, kid. We gotta go." Morgan's tone of voice shifts slightly, just enough to hint at his growing concern. In all of the years they'd worked together in the BAU, Spencer had never been late - not to a roundtable meeting, a case briefing, and especially not to a plane ride. He takes a steady breath, reminding himself that Reid is probably just suffering the wrath of his first alcoholic beverage. As he closes his eyes and slows his breath, he hears something.

Morgan leans in closer to the wall, flattening his ear against the cool drywall. Now holding his breath completely, he concentrates on the room just a few inches away. There is a steady beeping - an alarm clock.

Being in the FBI, especially in a special unit of the FBI, Morgan spends a lot of time with his fellow agents. They work late hours at the office, travel all over the country, and sometimes even share hotel rooms when it comes down to it. They work together, eat together, and sleep together. Morgan recalls the times that Reid dozed off on the jet or in the SUV, and how easily it had been to wake him. There's no way he could sleep through the sound of a persistent alarm.

As the panic rises further into his chest, Morgan does what he's been trained to do in situations such as this one. Any normal person would go down to the front desk and ask for a key, but no normal person gets inside the head of serial killers for a living. Morgan steps back into the hallway and draws his gun, steadily aiming it at the door in front of him. With a dead phone, he is unable to call for backup. His only option is to go in alone.

Morgan backs up a few steps and lunges his leg into the door as hard as he can. Only someone who does this on a regular basis would have the skill and psychical power to kick open a 3-inch thick metal door. Derek Morgan makes it look easy.

He keeps his gun aimed in front of him, sweeping the room quickly and checking the bathroom as well. When he is clear of danger, the real fear starts to set in. The room is practically untouched, with a neatly made bed and no signs of any occupants other than the alarm buzzing and Reid's go-bag perched in a chair near the balcony door. Morgan makes his way to it, almost feeling bad for snooping in his teammate's things.

He unzips the bag slowly and rummages through its contents. There is a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a stick of deodorant, but no indication as to where Reid might have gone. His credentials and cell phone are nowhere to be found, and there are no notes scrawled in his skinny, slanted handwriting.

"Something isn't right here," Morgan says to himself. "Reid doesn't just get up and leave. Not like this."

The sound of metal against wood startles Morgan, and he instinctively raises his gun again. The door handle rattles violently, there is the sound of heavy footsteps, and then a crash. Morgan puts his finger on the trigger and waits.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Being as this is a fanfiction, we're all just going to forget about the whole Tobias Hankel thing, okay? As it pertains to this story, it never happened. Thanks!**

"Hotch, we can't just sit around! What are we doing to help Reid?" Morgan scolds his boss, a very unusual action for him to commit. Though he doesn't always agree with Agent Hotchner, he does always respect him, as well as the rest of his team.

It's been four hours since Morgan discovered Reid's empty hotel room. He'd been looking for any sign as to where his colleague might have slipped off to when a disturbance at the door caught his heart in his throat. He'd raised his weapon in preparation to take down anyone that stood in the way of himself and his favorite genius. For an agonizingly long second, Morgan thought he'd been hearing things in his paranoid state, until the rest of his team filed into the room, the barrel of their pistols aimed right at his chest.

"What is this? Where's Reid?" Rossi had asked him, being the first to enter the room. Morgan stood in silence, having no idea what to say. He prayed that Reid had just gone down for breakfast, but a sickening feeling in his gut told him otherwise.

"I - I don't know," he'd said, immediately activating the motherly instincts of JJ. Out of all of them, with the exception of Hotchner, Morgan never lost his cool. He treated every case seriously, and never once did he allow himself to be subjective - not even when he himself had been accused of homicide.

JJ stepped forward, guiding Morgan to sit down on the king sized bed that occupied most of the room.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" She said in a soothingly sweet voice.

"I...um..."

"It's okay," she reassured Morgan, glancing up at the rest of her team with worrisome eyes. In all the years they'd worked together, they'd never seen Morgan so flustered - speechless, even.

"There was no answer at the door. I went back into my room and knocked on the wall. Nothing. So I kicked the door in, and he wasn't here. His phone and his badge are both gone, but nothing else seems out of place."

"And the alarm clock?" Hotchner asked, walking around the bed to shut off the beeping sound that filled their ears.

"It was going off. That's when I knew something was wrong."

"Okay," JJ said, talking to the rest of the team just as much as Morgan, whom she had her arm around. "Let's not panic. I'm sure he's around here somewhere."

"There's no sign of a struggle," Rossi pitched in, looking carefully around the floor and bed for any sign that someone had put up a fight.

His words weren't particularly reassuring to the team, but no one dared to say what they were all thinking. Reid was small, weak, and he didn't have his gun. Of course there wouldn't be any struggling. Any adult of average build could have restrained him with one arm tied behind their backs.

"JJ, take Morgan down to the lobby in case Reid shows up there. Rossi and I will stay up here in case he comes back. Prentiss, look around the hotel. Check the breakfast bar, gym, anywhere Reid might've gone." The team looked around at one another, each of them recognizing the authoritative tone in Hotch's voice. He was treating this just like he would any other case - treating Reid as a victim.

"Any sign of him?" JJ was quick to her feet as Prentiss entered the lobby, her strides wide and quick as she approached the couch where Morgan and JJ were seated. She didn't answer. With the discouraged look on her face, she didn't have to.

"Hotch and Rossi are on their way down," she said, taking a seat next to Morgan while shaking her head hopelessly, mostly to herself. "I don't understand. Where would he have gone?"

"Do you think I should notify the public of a missing person?" JJ asked Prentiss, who was nibbling on her nails and shaking her leg violently.

JJ's main job as part of the BAU is to act as a missing link between the Bureau and the public - that is, holding press conferences, contacting local law enforcement, speaking with victim's families, and acting as a voice of reason. She'd never hesitated to do her job and always followed the team's protocol, but she'd never worked a case involving one of their own. This was different, and she wasn't quite sure how to proceed.

"I don't know," Prentiss hesitated, feeling the angry eyes of Morgan flickering over to her right cheek. She didn't make eye contact with either of them. "I mean, it's only been a few hours. There's no sign of a crime. We don't even know if we have a missing person."

"Emily," Morgan started. She'd been expecting his scorn, but the team only used first names when they really meant business. She cast her eyes down, as did JJ.

"Reid is gone. Something happened to him, and we need to get it out to the public as soon as possible. You guys have worked cases like this hundreds of times before. Each minute that we sit here is another minute that Reid could be out there getting beaten or sliced up or - "

It was then that Hotch and Rossi stepped into the lobby, and the group fell into an eerie silence. Whether it be that no one knew exactly what to say, or that they all knew what needed to be said and just couldn't get the words out, it didn't matter. Reid was gone and they had absolutely nowhere to start.

* * *

"Hotch, we can't just sit around! What are we doing to help Reid?"

Agent Hotchner looks up at Morgan, whose eyes are glistening with deep concern for their youngest agent. "It's been four hours, Morgan. I don't believe the locals will take us seriously if we act this soon."

"Screw the locals!" Morgan shoots back. Prentiss and JJ look away, not keen on being caught in the crossfires of Morgan and their boss. "We're here, and Reid isn't. As far as I'm concerned, that's all we need to act on."

Hotchner gives his signature warning glare, not wanting to cause a scene in the middle of the hotel. Morgan sighs, throwing his head against the back of the couch. He knows better than to talk back to Hotch, but he has to bite his tongue not to.

"Excuse me." Hotchner's phone rings. He stands up and steps off to the side to answer it, but not far enough to be out of earshot of his team. Intentional or not, they make no effort to refrain from eavesdropping on the conversation.

"No, I understand that ma'am, but - " The caller interrupts Hotch, who looks frustrated by whatever he is being told.

"Yes, but...yes. Okay. We're on our way." He spends way too much time hanging up his phone and placing it back in his pocket, dreading what he is about to tell his team and already knowing what their reaction will be.

Hotchner walks slowly back to the group, his head hanging low. He stops in front of them, and doesn't speak until Rossi asks him what's going on.

"That was Strauss. She wants us all back at headquarters. Now."

"What?" Morgan jumps to his feet, leaving just a few inches between himself and his superior. At any other time, he would be severely out of line and reprimanded, but Hotch cannot blame him for the reaction. He raises his head to meet Morgan's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he genuinely states, "but there is nothing we can do at this point. And even if we do have a case, there's no way the Bureau will let us work it. It's too personal. You and I both know that."

"You're damn right it's personal!" Morgan takes another step towards Hotchner, who doesn't even blink in the midst of the advancement. "Hotch, that kid needs us. There is no one in this world who knows him better than the five of us. They can send the whole FBI out here if they want to. This team is his only chance."

Morgan's voice is low and dominant, much like Hotch himself. As much as he knows he needs to scold Morgan, Hotch can't bring himself to do it. His team has been working together for years, and deep down, they all know that Morgan is right. They spend every single day looking into the behavior of both criminals and their victims. If anyone is going to find Reid, it is going to be them.

"Get Garcia on the phone," Hotch finally says. He can almost feel the relief in the room at his words, but it doesn't last. "Don't tell her what's going on just yet. Tell her to get the next commercial flight out here. Tell her if Strauss asks, she's sick and going home early. This stays within this team until we get a better understanding of the situation. Do you understand?"

Morgan nods in agreement, glancing around at the other tense bodies in the room as he unclips his phone from his belt. With the push of just one button and one and a half rings, someone picks up.

"Baby girl," Morgan speaks quickly and with purpose. "I hope you have a go-bag at the ready."

* * *

"Does someone want to explain to me what I'm doing here?"

A sassy, quirky blonde strides into the hotel lobby just two hours after she had been called. Wearing a bright-colored floral dress, four inch heels, coral blue glasses, and enough jewelry to supply an entire fashion show, one would have no clue that Penelope Garcia works for the FBI.

"Garcia." Hotch rises swiftly to his feet, offering to take one of the three rolling bins that the technical analyst pulls along behind her.

"Sir, with all due respect, this is not my job. I sit in my dark little cave and scour the interwebs for evil behind the safety of my high-def screens. I'm not even authorized to carry a gun."

"I understand that, Garcia, and I appreciate you coming out on such short notice, but - "

"Again, sir, I had to lie to the Section Chief. Penelope Garcia does not lie to anyone. Well, unless you count secretly hacking into the FBI's network in order to protect you beautiful ducklings, in which case I - "

"Garcia," Hotch says, taking on a more serious tone than before. This prompts Garcia to quieten down, in which she realizes that the rest of the team are staring at her in complete silence, not a single hint of amusement on their faces. This is especially strange for Morgan, who usually encourages her uniqueness.

"This is a key to your room. I need you to casually take your belongings there, and then everyone is to meet in my room, number 206, immediately. Don't raise any flags. We're just a group of friends having a drink, do you understand?"

Garcia's cherry red lips fall into a straight line. She glances around at her team for answers, but no one meets her gaze. She knows that if anyone will tell her what's happening, it will be Reid. As rule-abiding and respectful as he is, he is also the most innocent, and therefore the easiest to crack when it comes to secrets. Just as Garcia is about to ask for his help in taking her things to her room, she realizes he isn't there.

"Where's Reid?" She asks cluelessly. When everyone looks down at the floor in silence, her breath catches in her throat. It only takes a second for tears to well up in her eyes, and a few seconds more for Hotch to reinforce his orders to her, a little more sensitively this time.

"Garcia, please. Prentiss can help you. She'll brief you on the elevator. Everyone else, follow me as nonchalantly as you can."

One by one, the BAU files out of the lobby and into a glass elevator that towers high above the main entrance, leaving just Garcia, Prentiss, and all of Garcia's equipment behind.

"I thought Derek didn't do elevators," Garcia breathes helplessly, watching as the four of them ascend in the glass box.

"Garcia, please. We really need to get to work." Prentiss lays her hand on Garcia's shoulder, picking up both of their go-bags and wheeling one of the analyst's carts behind her, towards a second elevator.

"Work...right. Let's go."

The ride up to the 18th floor is agonizing for both women, yet in entirely different manors. On the left, Garcia stares straight ahead as floor numbers light up on the panel. As each floor passes, the elevator seems to slow down. Her mind is racing with so many possibilities that it is impossible to make sense of any of them. Was Reid shot in the field? Did something happen to his mother, who suffers from schizophrenia? Did he take a case too personally and take matters into his own hands, as each team member does from time to time? There is only one thing Garcia can distinguish about the theories running rampant in her head - none of them are good.

To the right of her, Prentiss is debating in her mind how to break the news gently. She can't imagine what it must feel like, staying behind in Quantico and never knowing if everyone will make it home safely. Though Garcia's job involves little physical movement, it is no doubt that she is the strongest of the seven. Someone once told Prentiss that only the strongest people are capable of showing weakness. She forgets who said it, but knows that it is true.

"Penelope," Prentiss starts. Garcia slowly raises her eyes to meet Prentiss', a trail of eyeliner rushing down both of her cheeks.

"First names are never a good sign in this job, Emily. We don't call each other by first names unless something really bad happens." There is a brief pause. "Oh God," Garcia cries, "something really bad happened, didn't it?"

As much as Prentiss doesn't want to, she knows she has to tell Garcia what's happening - why she was called into the field, why she was ordered to lie to Strauss, and why they are a man down. She is accustomed to informing families that their loved ones are dead, but this seems so much harder than any other aspect of her job. She takes a deep breath, and decides the best route is to just be straightforward.

"When we met to board the jet this morning, Reid never showed up. Morgan went up to get him and he was gone." Garcia inhales sharply. Prentiss winces, but continues. If she stops, she's afraid she won't be able to start back up. "He left his go-bag. His creds and cell phone are missing. Morgan had his gun with him. Something about a stupid bet at the bar last night. There were no signs of forced entry or a struggle."

The elevator comes to a halt. There is a ding, and the door slides open. Neither of the women move. Neither of them speak.

"Is this your floor?" A brunette lady holding the hand of a small child asks, her eyebrows raised curiously at the pair of them as she waits to board the elevator.

"Yes, ma'am. My apologies." Prentiss snaps out of her daze, grabbing the bags she'd been carrying and gently nudging Garcia with her elbow. Garcia takes a deep breath, grabs her things, and quietly exits the elevator.

* * *

"Alright, guys. What do we know so far?"

"Nothing," JJ scowls, staring at the cream-colored wall of her boss's room. "We know nothing."

There is a long silence. Hotchner and Rossi sit on the edge of his bed, staring down at their feet in thought. Morgan stands, his back against the wall and head leaning back, eyeballs closed. JJ, Emily, and Garcia are positioned around the small oval table in the kitchenette, with JJ holding the hand of a sobbing Garcia.

"I understand that this is difficult," Hotch continues, forcing himself to make eye contact around the room. As the leader of this team, he knows that if he breaks, they all will. He has to remain strong and clear-headed, for himself, his team, and for Reid.

"Hotch," Morgan says - stern but respectful. "JJ is right. We have no evidence whatsoever. There is literally nowhere to start." He bangs his fist into the wall behind him, prompting Garcia to jump in fright. "I should've looked after him last night. I should've - "

"No!" Prentiss jumps up, striding over towards Morgan in her pantsuit and heels. "Don't you do that to yourself, Derek. That's what the UnSub wants."

"You have no idea what the UnSub wants." With that, Morgan stomps out onto the balcony, slamming the glass sliding door behind him so hard that a painting on the wall shakes. JJ stands to console him, but Rossi recommends against it, insisting that Agent Morgan needs space to cool off.

"What do we do when we have a case with no leads?" Rossi asks calmly, doing his best to guide the shock-stricken team into working mode.

"Victimology," Prentiss mutters, barely loud enough for anyone to hear her. "We try to study the behavior of the victim, find out everything we can about them, and work up a preliminary profile based on why and how the UnSub chose their victims."

"Exactly," Rossi agrees, nodding towards Prentiss, who has reverted back to her seat around the table.

"Yes, but victimology only works when we can compare two or more vi - "

"Don't." Everyone turns to stare at Morgan, who had slipped back in the room so quietly that no one is quite sure how long he's been back inside. "Don't you dare call him a victim."

JJ looks taken aback for a moment, but then a look of shock and disappointment clouds her face. "Oh my God, I - " She starts, raising a hand to cover her agaped mouth.

"Oh no, honey," Garcia reassures her. It is the first time she has spoken since her and Prentiss entered the room. "You didn't mean it like that."

"Look," Hotchner starts, attempting to relieve JJ of whatever terrible thing she must be feeling right about now, "this case isn't going to be easy, but we're not achieving anything by sitting around worrying. I want Morgan and Rossi to head back to D.C. and check out Reid's apartment. Look for anything that - "

"No," Morgan blurts out, shamelessly interrupting his superior. "I'm not about to get on a plane and go home while our boy is out there with some creep."

To everyone's surprise, Hotch continues with his orders. This seems to send Morgan into some form of angry rampage, who slams the door as hard as he can as he disappears into the hallway. As Hotchner directs Prentiss back to Reid's hotel room, himself and JJ to the bar Morgan mentioned they were at last night, and Garcia to the hotel's security office for video footage, he can't help but notice the reluctance in everyone's eyes. He isn't sure which is worse for them - the fact that Reid is missing, or that they have to dig through every aspect of his life to bring him home safely. It is not an easy thing to do, but it is necessary nonetheless.

"Guys," Hotch demands, reminding them all that he is still their boss and that they have a job to do, "the clock is ticking. Get to work."

Just as everyone stands up to head to their assigned locations, a loud knock comes at the door. Hotch is the first to withdrawal his weapon, and everyone - excluding Garcia - follows suit. It is not routine for the BAU to raise their guns at every knock, but it comes as no surprise that the peculiar situation has them all on high alert. Hotch makes a move to open the door. Rossi side-steps around him, covering him as he removes a hand from his pistol.

The door creaks open. A bellhop stands on the other side, clad in a horrendous green suit with a matching hat and looking absolutely terrified at the large, angry man standing behind him.

"Morgan?" Rossi questions, taking a step towards the agent who is holding the bellhop by his collar. "What's going on?"

"Go ahead. Tell them." Morgan gives the shorter man a nudge. He whimpers in response.

"I uh - I'm just here to deliver this package to Aaron Hotchner," he stutters, clearly terrified. "My boss will hear about the assault that your friend here has committed!" He adds, attempting to make himself sound braver than what he actually is.

"That won't be necessary," Hotch informs the bellhop, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a badge. "Morgan, get him in here."

Morgan does as he is told, perhaps a little rougher than what is typically allowed. The door slams shut behind them, and all is quiet again.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading this story! I apologize that this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but it seemed like a good place to stop. This story has a long way to go, so be sure to follow it if you'd like to find out what happens!**

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Who gave you the package?" It is rare for Rossi to lose his temper, but when he does, the whole room explodes with him.

"I already told you," the nervous teenager says, beginning to act more annoyed than scared now. "I didn't see him. I went to the office to get a key for another customer. I came back to the desk and it was just laying there."

Hotch glances from the boy, to Rossi, and then over his shoulder at Garcia. "Garcia, go on down to the security office. See if you can find whoever left this."

Garcia, deciding it best not to see whatever the box contains, shuffles out the door without a word.

"If the tapes don't match up with your story, you'll be charged as an accessory to kidnapping. Do you understand?" Hotch glares at the bellhop, hoping to break him if he does have anything to hide.

The boy's eyes widen in surprise. His mouth falls open. " _Kidnapping?_ All I did was deliver a box! What's going on? Are my guests in danger?"

Over in the corner, JJ sighs to herself, knowing that reactions like this are exactly why she can't inform the public yet of Reid's disappearance. If word gets out that an FBI agent has gone missing, mass chaos will ensue. As tempting as it is to release information in the hopes that someone saw something, she knows that she can't. It could put Reid in more danger than what he may already be facing.

"Get him out of here," Hotch demands to Rossi, who leads the boy out of the room and into the hallway. They all suspect that Rossi will tell the boy to keep his mouth shut, though his way of doing it may violate FBI standards. He turns to look at the rest of the team, who are all staring at the small cardboard box lying on the bed.

"Do you think we should open it?" Prentiss questions, raising her eyebrows at her boss.

"It's unlikely to be a bomb," Morgan states, carefully picking up the box and flipping it over in his hands. It is totally blank, aside from Hotchner's name scribbled on one side in permanent marker. "It's too small, and it would've been triggered when the boy handled it."

"Morgan's right," Hotch agrees. "If this is from our UnSub, it's likely to be a message of some kind." The tension in the room builds. When it comes to cases like these, "messages" don't typically come in the form of a thank you card. They come with bloody ears or severed toes.

Taking a deep breath, Morgan slowly peels off the clear tape that holds the box closed. He glances up at Hotch before flipping open the cardboard flaps and sticking his hand inside.

"What the hell?" Prentiss asks, confusion coating her face as Morgan pulls out a ceramic figure of a turtle. He raises his eyebrows at the green object before handing it over to JJ, who studies it carefully. He reaches his hand back in and pulls out a piece of notebook paper. One glance tells him that the writing does not belong to Reid, which could be either a good or bad sign.

"Slow and steady wins the race, so don't you worry about your pace," Morgan begins to read, feeling childish under the watchful eyes of Prentiss, JJ, and Hotch. "Don't you fret if they rush past because it's all a blur when you run that fast. It doesn't matter if you're behind…" Morgan trails off. "What is this sick son of a bitch trying to prove?" He throws the letter on the ground, placing his hands behind his head in frustration.

JJ picks the piece of paper back up, skimming through the lines until she finds where Morgan left off. "It doesn't matter if you're behind, step by step, just enjoy the ride. After all, who said the winner had to be the one who finished first? So be immersed in all the scenery and views along the way. Take your time. I promise you, it will all turn out okay."

As she finishes, JJ looks up to the rest of the team, hoping they've caught onto something that she hasn't. The looks on their faces prove that they are all equally lost. "I'll have this rushed to Quantico and dusted for prints." She holds the turtle up to eye level. Hotch nods in approval, so JJ hands him the letter and exits the room with the small figure, passing Rossi on her way out.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Hotch asks Rossi, handing him the note. A few minutes of silence passes as the veteran profiler reads each word carefully.

"Who said the winner had to be the one who finished first?" Rossi repeats after reaching the end of the poem. For some reason, that line in particular stands out to him. "I think he's trying to tell us something."

"But what?" Morgan asks, a bit calmer than he had been before, though his hands still grip the edge of Hotch's mattress.

"I have no idea," Rossi returns, not taking his eyes off the letter. "Maybe something in Reid's apartment can - "

"Come on, Rossi. I already told you we aren't leaving."

Rossi looks between Hotchner and Morgan, waiting for an inevitable argument. Instead, he is surprised by what Hotch asks next. "Do you think you can lead this team?"

"I'm sorry?" Morgan asks, arching his dark brows at the lead profiler.

"Do you think you can lead the team?" He asks again - more stern this time. "I understand that your head is here right now. It's a little over an hour from Louisville to D.C. Under the circumstances, I'm sure the BAU's pilot can shave a lot of that off. Rossi and I can be back in three hours. I need to know that I can trust you."

Morgan stares up at Hotchner, not believing that his boss is actually going to let him stay in Kentucky while they go to Reid's apartment. "Of course you can trust me, Hotch."

"Good. Prentiss, I want you to do a cognitive interview with him. See if he remembers anything from the bar that could be useful. Go back to Reid's room when you're finished. See if we missed anything."

"Yes, sir," Prentiss says, shifting uncomfortably as she glances down at her colleague. Morgan is a brick wall, and she knows that getting him to soften for a cognitive interview will not be easy, if possible at all.

* * *

"How many cameras do you have?" Garcia demands of a security guard sitting in a tiny closet just off the main entrance of the hotel's lobby. It took some talking for him to grant her access to the system, including a threat to expose his internet history to his wife.

"One in the lobby and one at each end of each hallway," he rattles off, bored.

"Geez," Garcia mutters mostly to herself. "You rednecks really _are_ living in a different time period." She loses her train of thought for a moment, thinking about all the different things someone could do to her in the elevator, stairwell, or all the other places in the hotel that don't have security.

"Okay," she thinks aloud, once she has snapped out of the nightmarish visions, "let's see who the dirty mailman is."

Garcia punches a series of buttons on a keyboard, not looking down for a second as her jeweled fingers dance across the letters. Boxes fill up the screen, each one showing a different location within the building. She singles out the one in the lobby, which thankfully points directly to the front desk. With the click of a few more keys, the live feed goes black and switches into archive mode. A text box appears at the bottom, and Garcia enters the sequence _142p_ , instructing the tape to bounce to 1:42 PM, about ten minutes before the bellhop arrived at Hotch's room.

It's just two minutes before the man behind the counter exits through a door behind him, presumably to get a key as he told Rossi he'd done. Garcia sits up straighter in her seat as a hooded figure enters the frame from the left, being sure to keep his head low. "Gotcha," she whispers.

The figure sits something down on the counter, and then walks out of view just seconds before the bellhop returns with something small in his left hand. He hands it to a young couple standing on the other side of the desk, and then notices the box. He picks it up cautiously, turns it over, punches something into a computer, and then disappears off the screen.

Garcia rewinds the tape a few times, her head getting closer and closer to the bright monitor with each one. She tries isolating the image, but being as it only picks up the back of the UnSub's head, she has nothing to go on. _Except..._ she thinks to herself.

"I need to talk to that dweeb behind the counter" she announces loudly, startling the security guard who had almost fallen asleep next to her.

"Huh?" He asks, taken aback by her choice of descriptive wording.

"Do not play dumb with me," she warns, shaking a neon orange nail at the uniformed man. "The kid that hands out the keys. _Now._ "

"Alright, alright," the guard complains, rolling his eyes at Garcia as he steps out of the hot, smelly room.

"I saw that," she warns, reverting her attention back to the screen in front of her. "Come on, boy genius," she says almost sadly, "I want to go back to the safety of my own dark closet, where there's air freshener."

* * *

"Okay, so you and Reid go to the bar. Tell me what happens there."

"I already told you and everyone else," Morgan spits bitterly, "I dared him to talk to some girl and now he's gone."

Prentiss sighs, sitting down on the bed next to Morgan. "Look, Derek. This is just as awkward for me as it is for you." While she's used to asking women to relive their rape experiences and for children to give every small, excruciating details about their kidnapping, none of it compares to having to get personal with a member of her own team.

"I need you to try, okay? For Reid?" She adds, gently placing her hand on Morgan's knee. He looks down at it, and his face becomes a little more relaxed.

"Yeah," he mumbles, ready to get the interview over with. Prentiss removes her hand and starts at the beginning again.

"Close your eyes." She waits for Morgan to do so. "Now, you went over to Reid's room and knocked. Did he come to the door immediately?"

"Yes," Morgan answers, concentrating hard on the previous night. "He was already in his pajamas. I asked him if he wanted to go out and he said no."

"How did you convince him to go then?" Prentiss presses, careful of her wording to avoid Morgan placing the blame on himself.

"He said, 'no, not tonight. I was just reading a book.' I flicked that little piece of his hair that always falls into his eyes." A grin forms on Morgan's lips, one that he is not even aware of. It makes Prentiss' heart ache in her chest.

"Come on, pretty boy," Morgan continues, now talking directly to Reid. "A little party never killed anybody.

"He's giving me statistics on how parties do, in fact, kill people. A lot of them, apparently," Morgan laughs, amused by Reid's brain. "Okay, now I'm in the room. I...I lay down on his bed. He's not happy about it. I tell him I'm not leaving until he puts his clothes on and comes with me."

"And he does?" Prentiss asks.

"Yeah, he does. I should've just let him stay. He didn't want to go." Morgan's breathing quickens. By now, he is completely immersed in the memory. Prentiss debates on pulling him out, but she fears he will be unwilling to try again once he stops.

"So, you're in the elevator. Is anyone in there with you?"

His brow furrows. He is trying to remember. "No," he finally answers. "No. It's just us. He senses I'm nervous. He's telling me it's okay because there are only 27 elevator-related deaths each year." Prentiss notices that Morgan's hands are trembling. She had no idea a man like him could be that afraid of an elevator.

"You get off the elevator and walk outside. What do you smell? What do you hear?" Prentiss tries to hurry along the process, knowing it is only a matter of time before Morgan goes back into steel mode.

"It smells like...grease. Food vendors. It's loud, but not like D.C. There's mostly young couples out, walking along the sidewalks. The bar is only a few buildings away. It only takes a minute to get there. Reid looks uncomfortable. This isn't his scene. We sit down. I'm buying him a shot, even though he says he doesn't want it."

"Does he take it?"

"Eventually. There's two girls coming up to us."

"What do they look like?" Prentiss perks up. Anyone that Morgan can remember might be able to help with the case.

"Uh…" Morgan rubs his temple, careful not to mess anything up about his story. "One is African American, the other Caucasian. They're both wearing tight dresses - one gold and one red. One of them wants me to go with her. I tell her no. I'm not leaving Reid."

"Are they mad at you?"

"No. They just walk off and start talking to someone else. I turn back to Reid. He looks...down. I try to cheer him up by messing with him. There's a bartender down at the far end of the bar. She's tall. Curly blonde hair. She's wearing a pink tank top. She definitely isn't his type and I knew that. I just...wanted to see him come out of his shell. I didn't think he'd do it anyway."

"Do what?"

"Go over to her. I promised I'd watch Star Wars with him if he does it."

"He does, doesn't he?" Prentiss' voice drips with empathy. Morgan has just sent Reid off with the last person who's seen him. They need to find out who she is.

"He...he does. She's flirting with him. I can't see his face but I know he doesn't like it. Reid doesn't like it when…" Morgan's eyes flutter open. "I'm sorry. I can't."

There is an unspoken understanding between Morgan and Prentiss as he takes a few deep breaths and collects himself. "You did great, Morgan. We need to go to that bar with your description and find out who the blonde is. She has to know something."

* * *

"Prints came back on the turtle. They didn't find anything. Who's this?" JJ has just noticed the man and woman following behind Garcia. They look nervous, but eager to help.

"I sprinkled a little pixie dust on that piece of junk they call a computer, and I found Mr. and Mrs. Hunter. They were at the desk when the UnSub came in with the package. I couldn't run him through facial recog. The camera only picks up the back of his head and he was hooded."

"Thanks, Garcia," JJ giggles, feeling uplifted by Garcia's proud find. They all have something to offer the BAU, and Garcia's is her ability to find light in the darkest of places. She never fails to make them all smile. Her bubbly personality doesn't quite fit in with the role she has to play, but Hotch always says he wouldn't want her to change for the world. They can all see why, too.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Garcia asks eagerly, not wanting to sit around while JJ interviews the couple.

"Actually, there is. Hotch sent me over a picture of the letter he received. I'm sending it to you now." JJ looks down at her phone, and then back at Garcia. "See if the words have any significance."

"Yes, my queen." With that, Garcia spins around and heads back to work, leaving JJ with the Hunters.

"Please, sit," she offers, allowing them to take the couch while she positions herself in an armchair opposite them.

"Did you happen to see the person who left the box behind?"

"We saw him, but…" the woman starts, shaking her head as if she forgot what she was about to say.

"He was wearing a hoodie, and his face was covered in shadow. He never looked up. I'm sorry, but what is this about? Did he kill someone?" The husband finishes her sentence for her, holding her hand protectively.

JJ looks taken aback, but soon remembers that the investigation has not been released to the public yet. "We have no reason to believe that at this time," she reassures herself more so than than the woman and man. "We're just investigating a possible missing person, is all. We have reason to believe the person you saw may be involved. You said 'he?' How can you be sure the UnSub is male if you couldn't see his face? Did he say something to you?"

"UnSub?" The girl asks, growing more frightened by the technical-sounding term.

"Unknown subject," JJ informs them, "the bad guy."

"Oh," she says, seeming to calm down a bit. "He didn't say anything to us, but he was mumbling under his breath. I couldn't make out what he was saying."

"He had to get back and read, maybe?" The man pitches in, raising his eyebrows in confusion. "If he just kidnapped someone, why worry about a book?"

JJ's breath catches in her throat as she puts two and two together. "Oh my God," she mutters under her breath, her big, blue eyes staring at the floor in shock. A thousand thoughts race around her head, and it is all she can do to remain professional.

"Ma'am? I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help. We really need to get going."

"Oh, no. You were a great help!" JJ reassures the couple, standing up to shake their hands. "Thank you so much." She puts on a pearly white smile, but it disappears as soon as the couple is out of sight.

In a shaken state, JJ pulls out her phone, hits a button, and stomps her foot impatiently as she waits for someone to pick up. "Hotch," she says urgently, "we have something."


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay," JJ begins, turning to face her team once she'd finished scribbling on a dry-erase board behind her. It took a little convincing on her part, but the hotel had finally agreed to let the BAU use one of their smaller conference rooms to work in until they were ready to join forces with the local police.

"Let's go around the room and discuss what we've all found. Nothing is too small," she adds, hoping that the tiniest of clues will lead them straight to their genius. "I'll start." JJ turns back around and writes some more information onto the board, her face showing disappointment when she sees that it doesn't take up even one sixth of the white surface.

"Garcia couldn't make out who dropped off the package, but she was able to track down Mr. and Mrs. Hunter. They were standing at the counter waiting to receive a key." At her words, Rossi shifts in his chair, almost disheartened that the bellhop's story had checked out.

"They said the man we are looking for kept his head down and had a hood on, but Mr. Hunter remembers him mumbling something about going home to read. He thought he meant a book, but…"

"You think he meant _Reid_ instead? As in Spencer?" Prentiss raises her eyebrows at JJ, who nods solemnly. Even if her theory is true, they still have no way of tracking down who the guy is, so they're at a disadvantage regardless.

"And that's when she called us," Hotch begins, his voice low and controlled. "Nothing seemed out of place at Reid's apartment. There were books piled up everywhere, but I'd assume that to be typical, given the condition of his desk at the office." Everyone is silent for a moment, each of them picturing their teammate sitting at his desk in the bullpen, working his heart away without a care in the world. Morgan would never say it aloud, but he regrets slipping Reid all of those extra files just so he could go home early. He can't help but wonder how many sleepless nights his colleague had, doing work that wasn't even his. If Reid had ever noticed the extra files - which Morgan is _sure_ he had - he never once complained about them or ratted him out to Hotchner.

"So nothing at the apartment…" JJ mumbles to herself, scribbling away at the board. She knows it seems silly, but the more stuff written on the board, the more hopeful she believes the team will be. "Prentiss? Morgan?"

Morgan averts his eyes to the table, knowing that Prentiss will tell everyone the details of their cognitive interview. It isn't like he did anything wrong, but he has a habit of becoming embarrassed over personal matters at work. When the group gets together for weekend drinks, he has no issue letting his professional guard down, but at work, it is a different story.

"Morgan remembered two women who approached him at the bar. One of them hit on him, but he turned her down because he didn't want to leave Reid."

"And look where that got him," Morgan mumbles angrily under his breath, just loud enough for Hotch, who is sitting closest to him, to hear. Hotch makes a mental note to speak to him privately after the meeting. As sensitive as this case is, he still needs all of his agents' heads in the game.

"Did you talk to them?" JJ asks, writing down the brief description of the women that Prentiss relayed to her from the interview with Morgan.

"No. They can't know anything. Morgan said they wandered off to hit on some other guys at the bar. He did remember what the bartender looked like though." Prentiss is careful with this next bit of information, for she knows that Morgan believes the whole situation is his fault.

"We went back to the bar and asked the manager if we could speak with her." Morgan continues where Prentiss left off, not breaking eye contact from the table in front of him.

"And?" JJ presses, flames of excitement rushing through her.

"She doesn't work there."

Four sets of eyebrows shoot up at the same time, all aimed at Morgan, who rubs the back of his neck in frustration before bringing his fist down on the table with a thud. When he offers no further explanation to his findings, they instead look at Prentiss, who hesitates to continue.

"We gave a description and the manager said he's never seen her before. They only have three blonde employees and none of them were working last night."

"Is it possible she was filling in for someone else?" Rossi asks, trying his best to remain optimistic.

"No," Prentiss shakes her head, "He took a look at the security footage and said she doesn't work there. She must've slipped behind the counter when no one was watching."

"Did the security footage happen to show where Reid went?"

Once again, Prentiss shakes her head in defeat. "She led him out on the dance floor. Cameras only cover the bar area. We did get a good shot of her face, though." She forces herself to perk up, not wanting to dampen the team's mood even further. "Garcia's running it through facial recog, but no hits so far."

"Wait a second." Rossi stands up, a lightbulb going off inside his head. "If the girl took Reid but a man delivered the package, we're looking at a team here."

"He's right," Hotch confides. "If that's the case, then we have a dominant - submissive partnership. My guess is that the girl is the dominant in the relationship. Her partner definitely isn't an alpha male, otherwise he'd have shown his face when delivering the package. Dominants are proud of their work. It isn't much, but combined with Morgan's description of the girl and the physique of the boy, it's enough to give a preliminary profile. Garcia," Hotch orders, "Is there any way you could get an approximate height and weight of our two UnSubs using security footage?"

"On it like lightening!" Garcia wheels her chair around to a second laptop, frantically pushing buttons as JJ hovers over her shoulder.

"JJ, I want you to write up a press conference. It needs to be ready for the ten o'clock news. Rossi and Prentiss, stay here in case Garcia gets a hit on the girl. If you find an address I want you to head there immediately. Morgan, come with me."

Morgan raises his eyebrows at Rossi, who shrugs his shoulders in reply. Across from them, JJ glances at her watch, letting out an exasperated sigh as she realizes she only has thirty minutes until the ten o'clock news. That is barely enough time to get the press here, let alone write up what she's going to say.

"Sir," JJ stops Hotchner as he and Morgan head towards the door, "Should I mention that Reid is an FBI agent?"

Hotch tilts his head to the side, as if weighing his options. He knows that criminals do not take well to federal agents, and that they may have less time to get to Reid if his captor finds out who he is. On the other hand, the community and local police agency may be more willing to cooperate knowing that Reid is one of them. "His creds are missing," Hotch begins in an attempt to validate his decision, mostly for himself as opposed to JJ, "It's likely our UnSub already knows who he is."

"Yes, sir." JJ forces a smile as Hotch and Morgan exit the conference room, with the former praying that he didn't just order a death sentence for his youngest agent.

* * *

"Hotch, what are we doing?" Morgan finally asks once the pair have made their way into the hallway. Hotch stops just ahead of Morgan, prompting him to do the same.

"We're going to the Louisville PD to deliver our profile," he says matter-of-factly, "but first, I'd like a word."

Morgan crosses his arms over his chest, looking at Hotch stubbornly. "Look, if this is about what I said back there, you have to understand that I was the last person to see him. What if I…" Morgan trails off, stumbling over his words.

"You didn't," Hotch replies sternly, practically reading Morgan's mind. "We still have time to find him, Morgan. But I need you _here_."

Morgan looks away, past Hotch's head and down the hall towards the lobby. He knows that Hotch is right, but it's impossible for him to have his head fully into what they are doing while Reid is alone with some insane person - or worse, a group of insane people.

"You're upset. We all are. But there's something else bothering you. What is it?"

Morgan rolls his eyes. A long time ago, the BAU had made an agreement not to profile one another for the sake of maintaining a private life outside of work. Noticing behavior is in their nature though. It is in the air they breathe and it is what they do best. They simply can't help it.

"That profile didn't sit well with me, Hotch."

"And why is that?"

Morgan pauses. Hotch has accused him before of not trusting anyone on the team, and doubting the original profile would support his claims. If he doesn't speak what's on his mind though, it could have a devastating outcome on the case.

"It's just...how many cases have we worked that involve teams with a female dominant? It's almost always two males, or a male and female with the male being the dominant." Morgan answers his own question without giving Hotch the chance to respond.

"Now, the package deliverer can't be the dominant because he wouldn't have hidden his face, and he would have insisted on staying with Reid while the girl brought the box in. It's all about control, but if he's _here,_ he's not in control of whatever is happening _there._ "

"Go on," Hotch insists, believing that Morgan may actually be onto something big.

"I saw that girl, Hotch. Reid might not be the strongest psychically, but I don't think she could subdue him all by herself. The only way she was able to pull him onto the dance floor in the first place is because he had a couple of shots first. Judging by the neatness of his hotel room, I'd argue that Reid never made it back there last night. He was taken directly from the bar."

"What are you saying?" Hotch questions, not quite following along with the conclusion Morgan is trying to draw out for him.

"The guy wouldn't have left her alone with Reid with the chance that he could escape. What if neither of them are the dominants, Hotch?"

Trusting Morgan's instincts, Hotch fishes his phone out of his pocket and calls JJ, informing her of the change in their profile. When he hangs up, he makes eye contact with Morgan, his expression softer than usual. "That's good thinking, Morgan. You can't shut down on us. Not right now."

As Hotch turns to head out the front door, Morgan clears his throat, unsure of whether or not he wants to open up to his boss on an emotional level. What he wants to say has been eating away at him since this morning, and he fears he might burst if he doesn't tell someone.

"Is there something else?" Hotch has switched back into business-mode, impatient to get to the police station and deliver their findings to every cop within the city. Right now, there are only six people working the case that spans a city with over 250,000 residents. It is already dark outside, and Reid has been gone for almost 24 hours. They do not have time to make small talk in a musty, dark hallway.

"Reid isn't my teammate, alright?" Hotch's face twists in confusion at the strange statement, but he takes a few steps back towards Morgan when he notices the glint in his eyes - as if he is struggling to hold back tears.

"I know...I know I give him a hard time at work. I pick on him. And I'll admit, the kid gets on my nerves from time to time." He allows himself a giggle, but it is short-lived. "But Reid isn't just some smart, nerdy agent that sits at a desk next to mine every day. He's like a brother to me, Hotch. And what kind of big brother let's something like this happen?"

At a loss for words, Hotch settles for placing a hand on Morgan's shoulder. Morgan's desperate eyes long for answers - anything to validate his reasoning for treating Reid the way he had over the years. He meant no harm by having a little fun at Reid's expense, but now he can't help but wonder if Reid understood why he did the things he did. Did Reid see him as a bully? Did he think that Morgan saw him as weak because he always did his best to look after him in the field? Such thoughts are haunting, but there is no time to dwell on them.

"Hey, look at me." Morgan snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of his boss's voice. He makes a promise to himself to explain it all to Reid if given the chance. He won't be able to live with himself if he's not given the opportunity to set things straight.

"Let's go get him back, okay?"

* * *

"At approximately 11 P.M. last night, an agent of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, Dr. Spencer Reid, was last seen leaving the Holy Grale bar in Louisville, Kentucky with a blonde female believed to be in her late twenties to early thirties." The BAU holds their breaths as two images flash across the flat-screen t.v. in Hotch's hotel room.

"Early this morning, hotel surveillance captured this footage of a white male, around six feet tall and 170 pounds. We believe he is connected to this case in some way. Based on the behavior of our two known suspects, we also believe a third person may be involved. This person is likely a male, strong build, and in his late forties or early fifties. If anyone has any information, please give the FBI or local police a call."

As soon as JJ finishes giving her statement, she is hounded with questions from the press. She is usually advised against answering them, but the team wants to be sure that everyone has a clear understanding of what they are looking for.

"How can you be sure there is a third suspect?" One journalist shouts.

"My team specializes in human behavior," JJ explains. "Criminals who operate as a team typically have a dominant leader who exerts total control over their submissive partner. Because neither of these UnSubs display the classic signs that fit these roles, we believe they are operating under someone else. He would have to be older and stronger to convince these two people to commit crimes for him."

"Do you think Dr. Reid was a target?" JJ freezes momentarily. Her, Prentiss, and Rossi had discussed the possibility while Hotch and Morgan headed to the police station, but there had been no evidence to say for certain.

"We are unable to make conclusions regarding the nature of the abduction at this time, but we will not rule anything out. Dr. Reid could have been targeted, or he may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time." JJ shudders at the cliche. Reid had always told the team that nothing happens by coincidence, and it feels wrong to assume otherwise while he is in danger.

Reporters yell out questions in all directions. Bright lights flash in her eyes and time seems to stand still for JJ, who is disgusted with the idea of her standing in front of a camera for national television instead of looking for her friend. If they don't get a lead soon, she decides, she will resort to walking the streets and shouting his name.

* * *

Agent Hotchner glances at his watch, and then around his hotel room at the team of exhausted profilers. It is nearing midnight, and no one has called with any information regarding Reid's whereabouts or who their UnSubs may be.

On Hotch's bed, Agent Rossi is stretched out with his head propped on his elbow, going through file after file of unsolved kidnappings in the area. Garcia is at the kitchen table in front of her laptop, her eyes bloodshot as she struggles to focus on the screen. Next to her, Prentiss and JJ are jotting down victimology on Reid, while Morgan sits on the sofa and appears to be in a whole other world.

"Alright," Hotch sighs, already knowing how his words will be received, "Everyone needs to go back to their own rooms and rest. We'll meet here at six in the morning with fresh eyes and a clear head."

A series of protests emulate throughout the room, and Hotch raises a hand to silence them all. "I know time is of the essence here, and I know it's difficult to rest with Reid on our minds, but it won't do us any good if we're all too tired to think straight."

"He's right." Rossi is the first to agree, though he does so hesitantly. "We're just chasing our own tails here. Maybe we'll come up with something after we rest."

As expected, Morgan's temper flares. JJ scratches the back of her head awkwardly, part of her understanding and the other wishing he'd stop lashing out at Hotch. "Reid is missing and you guys want to _sleep?"_ He says, his voice rising dangerously.

"Morgan, I'm sure sleep is the last thing any of us want to do." Prentiss steps in between the couch and where Hotch stands, glaring down at Morgan with his arms crossed over his chest. "But what good will we be to him when we're drained physically and emotionally?" Her voice becomes softer as she tries to reason with him.

"A whole lot more good than in our dreams!" Morgan shouts, growing more and more frustrated that his team is agreeing with Hotch. "How would you feel if you were taken and we were all curled up in our nice warm beds? Huh?"

"Morgan, that's enough!" Hotch's voice booms throughout the room, causing even Rossi to flinch. "If you can't handle this case and start thinking rationally, I'm going to have to take you off of it!"

Things suddenly become so quiet that you can almost hear footsteps on the sidewalk many stories below the hotel balcony. Morgan and Hotch stare at one another for what seems like an eternity to everyone around them, until Morgan finally strides past him and out of the room, making an effort to bump into Hotch's shoulder before slamming the door.

"Everyone get some rest," Hotch mutters quietly, walking over to help gather Garcia's things, whose eyes remain fixated on the door that her usually flirtatious and confident hero has just walked out of angrily.


End file.
